Death's New Toy Rewrite
by Karushna5
Summary: Estel has run afoul in a town with no name, where prejudice runs wild. Should he reveal his home and the location of the Elves, he will be freed. Should he not, he will have to face the blade of the Guillotine. It's fixed!


**Death's New Toy  
By: karushna5**

**Disclaimer:** I wish, oh how I wish, I owned the characters in this fic. If I did, I would be rich. (Eleniel: Rich? You'd be beyond rich…I don't think that have a word for that much money…AND you'd have Legolas and Aragorn…glares I think I'd have to hurt you if you did own them, unless of course you cloned them for me. That would do nicely.)Unfortunately, I own nothing and no one.

**Also a special thanks** to those who reviewed my 1st version of this story. This one has looked over with a fine-toothed comb and corrected by my Beta. (Thanks Much!) And altered to be more interesting (I hope), the ending has been extended.

**Summary:** Estel has run afoul in a town with no name, where prejudice runs wild. Should he reveal his home and the location of the Elves, he will be freed. Should he not, he will have to face the blade of the Guillotine.

On With The Fic!

The crowd cheered in the center of the marketplace. Most of the noise was cheers of excitement and joy at the event ahead; a small amount of people were shouting insults and throwing rotten fruit. Aragorn's head was whipped back as a soft, moldy apple slapped him in the cheek. The object of their attention was currently standing on a platform in the town center, awaiting his punishment. A single man had made up prosecutor, judge, and jury; he harrumphed several times to gain the villagers' attention before beginning a hopefully long-winded speech, as Estel was not keen to meet the cradle of the gleaming contraption on the other end of the platform.

The boy stood on the wooden platform awaiting his sentence of treason against his own kind. How had he gotten himself into this mess? Truth be told the eighteen-year old wasn't even sure himself; everything had happened so fast that Estel's head was still spinning. All he knew was that because he had told them he was in good relations with the elves of Imladris, they had decided to execute him.

One of the leaders of the little village stood in front reading off his charges, but Estel didn't bother to listen. Instead, his eyes were fixed on the town's method of executions. A Guillotine, they had called it, and looked in every way as terrible as its name. A large blade set between two wooden rails, which attached to a raised wooden, slab where his body would lay. A hole to place his head in was down at the end of the plank, by the blade. Beside him stood a very large hooded man; his arms bulged with muscle as he stood nearby to do his job. He looked mean and Estel doubted he could take him on his own. Things did not look good for him.

He had come to be there by complete accident. He and his brothers had been heading to Mirkwood to visit with Legolas when they were attacked by a large group of Orcs and Wargs. After a long and difficult fight, Estel had found himself separated from his siblings. He had tried to head back in the general direction of Mirkwood, hoping that he would run into his brothers; if not, he would at least rejoin them in the palace.

Unfortunately it seemed the Fates had conspired against him that day, because it had rained heavily during the night and come morning a thick fog had coated the ground.

Hours spent wandering in the fog had only confused him, making him more lost than he already was. Somehow, he had wondered into the town. It certainly was not the only anti-elf town in Arda; however, it did boast the only Guillotine in the aforementioned land.

He had heard of this invention not too long ago from the rangers that had passed through Rivendell from this direction. He had overheard tales of this new terrible invention. From what he could gather it was not a pretty way to end a life. He would soon find out for himself.

At last (and all too soon in Estel's opinion), the 'judge's' speech was over, and the crowd that had been quieted during the man's harangue had once again started its roar. Estel was roughly grabbed by the hooded guard and dragged towards the dreaded Guillotine. Seeing his impending doom, the human began to struggle. Estel fought as best he could with his hands tied behind his back (which was still better than many men, having spent hours wrestling with his brothers in such a way). He thrashed desperately, but the guard viciously wrapped his fingers around Estel's throat, effectively stilling the teen.

The crowd seemed pleased with the display.

_'These people are sick,'_ thought Estel disgustedly. _'How could they enjoy this? It's not something to laugh about. A life is about  
__to end. My life is about to end!'_

For a moment Estel considered pleading with the crowd to release him, but his voice stopped at the sight of the large blade gleaming in the sunlight.

'This is most certainly _not_ how I pictured I would die…' he thought with a grimace as he was dragged the final few feet.

Estel's legs were kicked out from under him. The Elven-raised man fell painfully to his knees; a hiss escaped his lips as a sharp pain zipped through his legs. A black cloth bag was placed over his head and he felt himself being lifted and roughly flopped down on the hard bench. The back of his neck connected with a curved restraint as another piece of wood was placed above his throat. His hands were momentarily released while the guard held his feet, and two more men quickly shackled his wrists to the board he lay upon. His ankles were soon similarly bound. Estel pulled at his new bonds, testing the strength of the chains that held him. He couldn't move very far at all, and it hurt his joints to attempt to. His elbows felt like they would break at any time because of the odd angle they had been placed at. Shaking his head, the bag fell off, but he soon wished he left it on. Above him he could clearly see the blade that would soon remove his head.

Somewhere off to the side, out of range of Estel's vision, the rope that held the blade in place was untied, and the edge trembled as the guard (and apparently executioner) picked it up.

"Now's your last chance, boy," said the village chief, who had handed down the sentence. He knelt next to Estel's head. "Tell us where the elves are and we will let you go. Refuse and you will die."

Estel glared and spit in the man's face. "Never."

The man wiped off the spit with a look of complete and utter disgust that soon turned to anger as he stared back at the boy.

Standing up, he gave the command, "Kill him."

The rope released and the blade came down, its' fine-edged tip thirsting for the blood from his throat.

Time seemed to slow for the ranger as he watched death approach. It was in that time he realized how short eighteen years really was, human or not. Instantly he regretted his decision to go off on his own, and leave his brothers to look for him where he should have been, as they would never find him where he was.

Feelings of betrayal, regret, and sadness made themselves known as he readied for death. He recalled his father's warnings to not let the people of this village know that he lived with elves, for they were a very prejudiced people who would do everything in their power to hunt down the Firstborn, if they only knew where to look.

In those last, agonizingly slow moments, he could hear a commotion rising in the crowed that had earlier cried for his lifeblood. The sound of something flying through the air reached his ears. With a flash, Estel realized he knew that sound; he had heard it countless times in his life. It was the hollow twang of a bowstring released, followed by a dull thud as the arrow found its target.

The blade stopped a mere inch from his throat.

Estel released a breath he didn't know he was holding. He turned his head trying to see what was going on, but alas it was in vain. It hurt his head and neck to try and move it. Movement caught his eyes. A reflection on the blade showed what was happening behind him.

Three cloaked figures fought their way through the crowd, aiming only to injure, not to kill. One broke away from the other two, and the panicked crowd scattered. The townspeople ran in every direction, trying to escape the chaos that surrounded them. They dashed into homes, buildings, down alleyways; anywhere they could get to. Estel saw none of this; only the one who was running towards him drew his eye. This one was quick, and moved through the crowds with the greatest of ease. As he ran towards Estel, he picked up a sword that had been discarded in a barrel.

Estel began to worry slightly; he had figured out who the other two probably were (well, hopefully were…oh please, Ilúvatar, let it be them, he thought feverishly), but who was this third, and why the sword? Was he planning on finishing what the townsfolk had started? He watched as long as he could, but his breath kept fogging up the reflection in the blade and he could not turn his head. The human growled in frustration, took a deep breath, and held it, waiting for the image to clear. As soon as it did, though, sunlight reflected off the sword's blade and onto that of the Guillotine, temporarily blinding Estel.

Elladan watched from the side as one of the guards approached Estel. As the guard picked up a sword, the older twin was slammed with the thought that he still might lose his little brother. His eyes widened as he picked up the pace, now at a full out run. Nevertheless, it was too far, and there were too many people; he would never make in time. Quickly (and loudly), he yelled to his twin in hopes that Elrohir could do what he himself could not.

"Elrohir! Estel!"

Somewhere not too far away he heard Elrohir gasp as he saw what was about to happen. Grabbing his bow, he ceased his sword fighting and took up stance near Elladan. His twin would defend his back while he aimed.

Estel's vision in the Guillotine blade had finally cleared, and he saw the third person, nearly up the stairs at the platform edge, and in the distance, his brother aiming an arrow. Unexpectedly, the face of one familiar popped into his view. It was the face of his dearest friend; one he had known for as far back as he could remember. Never was there a moment when they would leave each other alone to fend for themselves. His eyes widened in realization of what was about to happen. Legolas was about to be shot – and by Elrohir no less.

His breath caught in his throat.

"No…" whispered Estel in horror, before regaining his mind. Desperately he shouted, "LEGOLAS!"

It happened all at once.

Elrohir fired, his arrow flying true to its course. Elladan took down several foes at his brother's back and was finally able to move forward.

Tears formed as Estel viewed the scene in the reflection on the blade. He could not watch his friend die; he didn't want to see it come to be. He closed his eyes tight unable to watch the horrors as they unfold.

Legolas speedily ducked when Estel called, and he felt the fletchings of the arrow graze the top of his head. He smirked slightly as the big man behind Estel was struck dead. Finally reaching his young friend, he knelt down near his head and ruffled his tousled hair.

Estel opened his eyes at the contact and nearly screeched in relief. His friend was alive. Legolas was alive! Elrohir didn't shoot him! Looking into his friend's eyes he saw a mix of emotions, from happiness and relief and a little worry that lingered in the very depths.

"Are you alright, Estel?" Legolas asked softly. Estel nodded as best he could in the restraints of the contraption. "Good we're going to get you out now." He stood up and the twins approached to see to their youngest sibling.

It took some time, but Estel was finally freed. After a long tearful reunion, and a little scalding from Elladan for not staying as close as should have, things went back to normal and the brothers, both of blood and friendship, made their way to Mirkwood, where many more adventures waited for them, and many things to see.

Still, Estel could not help but feel like Elrohir had betrayed them. '_What was he thinking, shooting at Legolas? He could have killed him,' _he thought. Estel glared daggers at his brother's back.

Elrohir shifted uneasily on his horse. He could feel the piercing, burning stare from behind. He turned to see what made him uncomfortable and was surprised to see his little brother trying to burn holes in him with his eyes.

"What did I do?" he asked.

Estel spoke through gritted teeth. "You tried to kill Legolas."

"I did?" The younger twin seemed entirely unaware of what he'd done. Estel's fury only grew with the reply.

"Estel, calm down," Elladan laughed. "We weren't trying to kill Legolas."

"But you shot at him!"

This time it was Legolas who laughed, "Estel, mellon-nin, though I am honored you would fight off your brothers to protect me. I can assure you I knew about everything."

Estel's anger instantly deflated to a look of confusion, and so he was rendered almost speechless. "Y-You…what?"

"I knew all about it. Though it wasn't part of the plan."

"Plan?"

"Yes, plan." said Elladan. "You see when we realized where you had gone, we knew that we had to get you out before anything disastrous happened."

"And so we arrived. But there were only two of us at the time, and we couldn't fight off the entire village alone," continued Elrohir.

"It was only luck that I was on the way to meet with the three of you," added Legolas, shaking his head.

"Unfortunately, they had acted quicker than we thought and we didn't have a good plan ready and just took things as they came and prayed for the best," Elrohir babbled, not stopping for a breath.

"But that still doesn't excuse you from almost killing your best friend," Aragorn put in somewhat angrily.

Elrohir sighed; this really was getting old. "Estel, think about it. Do you honestly think I would ever intentionally harm Legolas, who, I remind you, I have known for centuries longer than you have been _alive_."

"It is true, Estel. Your brothers may have poor shots, but they are better than most," Legolas said softly, looking the man in the eyes.

"Have a little faith in us, Estel," Elrohir pleaded.

"Hey, wait, what do you mean, 'poor shots'?" Elladan asked, indignant and obviously trying to lighten the mood.

Legolas smiled mischievously in answer. "Exactly what you think it means."

"One more question," interjected Estel. His serious tone melted the light hearted air around them. "If it wasn't Legolas, who were you aiming at?"

"The man with the sword who was coming up behind you." Elrohir's eyes softened to almost tears as he remembered the fear that had shot through him when he saw the blade so close to his brother's neck. "He was going to kill you Estel. I was afraid that I wouldn't make it."

Long arms wrapped around the slender Elf's neck. Looking over he saw Estel had ridden up beside him and was hugging him.

Estel pulled away a smile plastered on his face.

"Thank you."

"Now, if there are no more misunderstandings," interjected Legolas with a grin, "Elrohir, my friend, I strongly believe you need to practice on your aim."

"What's that suppose to mean?" said Elrohir in mock anger.

"What do you think it means? You almost hit me!"

"Oh please. I missed you by at least twenty leagues."

"Indeed not. I could feel graze my head!"

As the two argued Elladan and Estel held back and laughed.

Elladan reached over and hugged his baby brother.

"I'm glad you're safe; please don't do that to me again. I could swear I felt my heart stop."

Estel smiled impishly at the older twin. "Sorry Elladan," he said, smacking his brother lightly, "but I don't make promises I can't keep."

Feed the muse,  
And tame the Plot bunnies.  
Review me please.


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